


Holmesian Roulette

by heelofpatroclus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, TFP - Freeform, mystrade, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 17:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heelofpatroclus/pseuds/heelofpatroclus
Summary: Mycroft is in Eurus' cell. There is blood on his hands, and Moriarty is whispering horrible things in his ear. The barrel of a gun rests heavily against Mycroft's temple. Will Mycroft win or lose his game with Eurus? Will Greg beat the ticking clock and keep Mycroft from becoming the final body in Eurus' bloody game.AU for TFP.





	Holmesian Roulette

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["How's the Diet?" "Like a Proper Big Brother!"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/325632) by Tikatikox. 



> Trigger warning: suicide reference / attempt, drug-induced psychosis (of a sort), dark / depressing content
> 
> I saw the picture by childside, and I just had to write something. It's not the words that they'd put up with the picture, but it just fit in so well with something I'd been wanting to do.

“How could you kill my wife? It was me you wanted dead, Eurus!”

“Oh no, governor, you have it all wrong. What I wanted was to show the futility of such an arbitrary idea of morals—it’s all Mycroft’s fault that your wife is dead.”

“But _you_ shot her, Eurus!”

Mycroft was trapped in his own body—unable to move, unable to turn away from the scene in front of him. The terror that should be in the pit of his stomach, churning up his stomach acid, was pointedly absent. Although he was sitting situated against the wall, at the head of the bed, there was a spinning and wooziness in his head. The sensation had left him reeling, as though he’d be pitched off it at any moment. Mycroft was made of stone from the neck down, unfeeling and unmoving.

“I merely completed the experiment as I outlined at the beginning.” Eurus’ voice was matter-of-fact as she droned on. “Every action has a consequence. The consequence of their inaction was your wife’s death. But if it makes you feel better, I doubt she suffered much. Her consciousness would have been gone when the bullet ripped through her prefrontal cortex.” A sob escaped from the governor. “Just think. If my brother had put his silly sense of morals aside, and simply made the rational choice—one life in exchange for another, she’d still be alive. We can’t blame _John_ for being overcome by his little emotions. At least _he_ tried.”

Suddenly, the governor had the gun in his hands, and he was pointing it at Eurus. His hands were trembling. “People’s lives aren’t games, Eurus! I tried to help you, and this is how you repaid me!”

Eurus’ smile was cold as she simply reached out and took the gun from the governor’s shaking hands. “So fragile, so easy to break.”

She reached out a hand to brush her fingers against the governor’s chin, her fingers coming away with blood. Without a moment’s hesitation, she sucked the bloody fingers into her mouth with relish.

Mycroft was unable to close his eyes against the scene in front of him.

Eurus had turned to look at Mycroft. “Where would he have shot you? Would he have been merciful and shot you between the eyes? Would he have tried to shoot you in the heart? Would he have missed entirely and had to try a second time?” She tapped her hand against her chin. “Oh, I would’ve liked watching Sherly try to beat big brother to death.”

She took a breath and frowned like someone had taken a toy from her before turning back to the governor.

“But no—he had to ruin the fun. He thinks his hands are clean—he thinks he can blame everything on someone else. Blame it all on me!” She turned on her heel to look directly at Mycroft. “You never were _good enough_ , Mikey. Lurking in the shadows, pulling strings to try and manipulate the world without drawing attention. All your secrets have come back to bite you, haven’t they?” When he didn’t answer, she held the gun up towards him, slowly approaching the bed he lay on. “Answer me!”

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tick-tick-tick ...” The lights shone red as Jim’s face appeared on the television screen. Mycroft almost fell off the bed, suddenly free, as he whirled uncoordinatedly to look up at it. “Such a coward. Couldn’t. Even. Get. To. The. ‘End of the line’!”

“If he hadn’t been such a coward, then my wife might still be alive. Eurus is unpredictable, but you made her angry—refusing to play the game, Mycroft.” Blood smeared against the glass panel behind the governor as his head tipped back against it. “Just look at you—you think that your armor will protect you from anything. Your frigidity hasn’t saved me, has it?”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed at the voice above him, and he had to hold onto the sheets on the bed to keep himself steady when he turned back to look at the governor. He was so dizzy, so light-headed, that the world spun around him in brilliant red lights before it suddenly shifted back to white light. Blood and brain was splattered against the glass panel, and the room was heavy with the smell of metallic iron and salt. The governor’s voice seemed to drift back into the background as a mindless noise without meaning.

As his eyes slowly roved over the gruesome scene laid out before him, Mycroft’s stomach lurched. His vision went black as he leaned over his knees to throw up on the floor. There was only bile and stomach acid, and he spent a few minutes just dry heaving with Moriarty’s voice droning on in the background.

His mind spun in swirls of white and red. As Mycroft looked around the room, everything felt too far away. Then all of the sudden, there was fluid against his skin. Blood seeped through his white dress shirt to soak his skin. He felt tacky slickness as he reached up to touch his forehead. The hand, however, was clean when he pulled it away to look at it.

As he rolled his neck to look around the room, Mycroft’s brow furrowed in confusion while he slowly tracked the room. No one was in the room and there was silence.

Whatever Eurus had given Mycroft to knock him out was clearly still in his system. The nausea rolling through his stomach still grew stronger when he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Dizziness, dissociation from bodily feelings, vomiting. Would she poison me just to watch me die slowly like a caged rat?’ Mycroft was pulled from his introspection by a sudden voice next to him.

“Oh look—you’ve no problem holding the gun now.” The voice of John Watson was hard and bitter. Mycroft’s head shot up to try and find where it was coming from. There was still no one else was in the room. Nonetheless, Mycroft could feel the gun in his hand, cold and heavy.

The shadows laughed at him as they loomed large while his head turned this way and that to try and assess the situation properly. They prevented him from moving, but the sight in front of him was suddenly clear. The governor’s head was slumped. Mycroft could hear the rasp of heavy breathing, but that was overtaken by the overly loud voice unexpectedly appearing on the television screen behind the governor.

“If we’ve come this far and the tape’s still running, tsk-tsk.” Jim Moriarty’s voice was haughty and stern in the same sound. “Didn’t have the strength to pull the trigger—or maybe he wanted you to stew in your own guilt… and let his hands stay clean. Look at all the blood on them, seeped into the very pores. Don’t you know there’s nothing you can do? Whatever way it happens—I don’t much care—it’s the end of the line for the Holmes brothers. LOOK at your HANDS!” Jim turned off screen to spit.

Anger bubbled up in the pit of Mycroft’s stomach in response to Moriarty’s taunting, but it vanished when he saw the blood. This time, the pads of his hands were covered in fresh blood. Magnussen, AGRA, Moriarty’s victims, Eurus, Victor, David, the Garridebs, and so many more—all the blood was on his hands. If only he hadn’t enabled Sherlock, or allowed Moriarty to go free, or Eurus her treats, or been able to overcome his many shortcomings. Then the blood wouldn’t encrust his hands and testify to his failures and crimes. Mycroft’s head drooped against his chest as the incriminations rang through his mind.

“If you had been rational,” a voice rasped. “My wife would be alive. _You_ are worse than Eurus— _you_ are the murderer. _You_ almost let your brother die…”

Mycroft’s head shot up and his stomach heaved again when he looked in the direction of the voice and saw the governor’s dead eyes staring straight through him. In stark contrast to the pallor, there was the dark reddish-brown of the dried blood that stood out from the blackened bullet hole at his temple.

“Eurus would never have done this if you hadn’t abused your power. She wouldn’t have had the access to the outside world.” The governor’s slack face changed as he frowned sharply, and the sound of raspy breathing was loud in Mycroft’s ears.

Before he was aware of his own actions, Mycroft felt himself connect heavily with the ground on his hands and knees. Unwittingly, he crawled through his own sick towards the governor. He could see the man’s mouth was moving again, but Mycroft couldn’t understand what he was saying. The bright red blood now on the governor’s face entranced the eldest Holmes. Even as he lost his balance, while still on his knees, he hit his forehead against the ground and panted when another wave of nausea rolled over him, but he kept crawling once the spell passed.

“David,” he whispered desperately when he shook the suited shoulder. The head swiveled to him, still talking, but Mycroft didn’t understand a word of it. Blood poured down the face, some from the eyes, but more from the bullet hole and nose. The sight of that much blood made Mycroft swoon with further dizziness.

“Not so powerful now, are you?” John’s voice rang clearly through the room, but Mycroft was too faint to look for him this time. When he blinked, the blood was gone from the governor’s face, yet he could still smell it. “You’re scum—why don’t you do us all a favor and just shoot yourself like David did here?”

The words ricocheted like bullets in his heart, regardless of how shriveled he told Sherlock it was. A low, throaty moan tore Mycroft’s unseeing eyes from the corpse in front of him back slowly to the television, and he wanted to rip his heart out at the video on the screen. Sherlock, years younger, lying on a bed in a drug den, eyes rolled back in a high—the string still loose around his elbow.

“You have no idea how… delicious that is. The pleasure—he must have been on cloud nine. Wouldn’t have minded a taste of that myself.” Moriarty licked his lips. “But we’re not here for that—pulled the trigger yet? This is getting rather bo-ring.” This time Jim held up a gun and licked the barrel. “Suicide shouldn’t have to be tedious.”

Sherlock so unhealthy looking—it was his fault that Sherlock had gone through hell. Mycroft’s mind was suddenly running through all the times he had found Sherlock high, the pain in his chest growing tighter with every thought. The sound of an explosion shook the speakers on the walls, and Mycroft didn’t notice that the lights turned from white to red. His eyes were focused on the television as a building fell before his eyes. It was his fault, everything bad in the world felt as though it sat on the shoulders of one Mycroft Holmes.

“Take a hint,” Moriarty’s voice again rang from the grave, even as the video continued to scroll through video footage of Eurus screaming, Sherlock shooting up, the Coventry debacle, and various acts of violence in Britain. Again, the lights changed back from red to white. “Shoot up—it’d take the pressure off the weight on your shoulders. Lead’ll bring you… a more permanent peace than anything else kids’re doing these days.”

Mycroft looked down again and realized that the gun was clenched tightly in his right hand. It was heavy—heavier than the pistol in his umbrella handle. Heavier than the pain in his chest as he stared at the videos on the television.

“Just a marionette on strings,” Moriarty crooned as he raised his gun, lazily firing off a shot. “What’s so hard about cutting your strings—permanently? After all the pain you’ve caused?” Jim smiled sweetly at the screen. “Isn’t a little pain of your own fair?”

Mycroft looked from the screen back to the gun and his hands. Blood smeared from his right hand onto the butt of the gun, so he was tainting something else merely by touching it. A moan of pain drew his eyes back to the screen this time. Sherlock clad only in sweatpants, scratching his arms until he bled. Vaguely, Mycroft’s mind told him that Sherlock was in the midst of one of his many withdrawals.

As Sherlock sobbed and whimpered on the screen, Mycroft held up his right hand to his temple. The barrel of the gun was cool against his too hot forehead.

“This is your only chance at redemption.” Moriarty faced the camera, and his expression was grave even as his voice bubbled up with mirth. The lights changed to red again as the criminal spoke. “Do it. You’ll never have the strength again.”

When video changed back to Sherlock in the throes of agony, Mycroft released the safety on the gun and closed his eyes. As Sherlock wailed and beat his arms against the side of the couch he lay on, Mycroft positioned the barrel against his temple and pulled the trigger.

A single tear slid down the iceman’s cheek.

There was the click of the gun, but no bullet was fired. The chamber was empty.


End file.
